A/N: I probably shouldn't have written this whilst I was half asleep, so I apologise in advance for any and all mistakes! I did proof read a couple of times, so hopefully they're at a minimum, regardless.

Firstly, I just want to clear up a timeline issue before anybody gets confused about when this is set. So the beginning of this story is set between the end of the first game, and the start of Modern Warfare 2. Operation Kingfish has happened (hence the lack of Price right now). However, as I stated before, I am going a little off canon in places. This is one of them. So, for canon Kingfish, the 141 was already established. In my world, it was just a SAS/Delta joint OP, and Soap/Shepherd haven't created the 141 yet. Ghost will also be recruited later. I needed a little pure SAS time between those two points in which to introduce my character, otherwise her run in the story would be too limited, and it wouldn't make much sense bringing her forward into the events of Modern Warfare 2. Hopefully, that's cleared things up a bit, but if there are any unanswered questions, I think the story should clear them up as it goes.

I also would just like to take the time to thank all those who have read, favourited/followed, and especially my very first reviewer, Republic of Gamers! I really appreciate it a great deal. Criticism and suggestions are always welcomed. They help me gauge what you'd like to see next, and how to improve my writing! (Obviously!) Hope you enjoy the chapter. :)

CHAPTER THREE:

Well. It wasn't quite what she'd expected, but it sure as Hell could have been worse.

"This one's yours. Usually meant to sleep two, Ma'am, but I guess the Major thought you should have some privacy, bein' a—" he said before pausing, gesturing at her limply, "—woman an' all."

Whilst she knew that it was unfair she had a room to herself when the norm was for two to bunk together, privacy was indeed a luxury; one that she wasn't going to throw away over pride. Now was not the time to be crying about equality. She had gotten far too used to the cushy lifestyle being a civilian offered for that. Besides, she wasn't enlisted anymore. Surely that was as good an excuse as any to be okay with bending the rules when it came to accommodation?

By this time, the unnamed Scotsman had disappeared. Shortly after entering the building, he had handed the bag he'd rescued to a younger looking trooper, and discarded the attaché for what she assumed to be more pressing matters. Hazel had almost face palmed. Actual hand-to-face contact. How could she have been so stupid to have missed a bag? God, if he didn't know about her failure to pass to selection, this surely screamed of incompetence. Trusted with military intelligence, but also an occasional tendency to leave it lying around on the floor. Why not? Regardless, this new guy apparently didn't have a clue, and accepted his Captain's orders without complaint. That didn't stop him from looking one hundred per cent unenthusiastic about it, however.

The brunette dropped her bags in a messy pile at the end of the bed she sincerely hoped was more comfortable than it looked, before turning to the solider. She'd acquired his name whilst a bunch of men had catcalled after them when he'd been assigned as her escort. Demo.

"Major says if it ain't up to your standards or anythin', there's a Hotel in town instead," Demo told her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his camo jacket.

"It'll be fine," Hazel assured him, glancing once more around the awful, smoked-salmon coloured room. "I definitely don't think I'll be swinging any cats in here, though."

"Guess not."

Demo appeared stiff, and disinterested in communication beyond the absolute necessities. Well, she was going to have to break him eventually. If she planned on working around these men efficiently, she needed to give them every assurance that she wasn't some out-of-touch suit who wanted to parade around the place as though she shat rainbows. It didn't help that she had no idea who had filled this position before her, and just what kind of impression they had left behind.

"So. Your name's Demo?" She asked, quirking an eyebrow, and tossing her blazer over the back of a chair.

"Yeah. That's what all the guys call me, anyway," he nodded, shuffling his feet slightly. "Look, you need help getting to the Major's office, or can I get out of here? Cap's got the Killing House booked this afternoon, an' he gets his knickers up his arse if we're late."

Demo stiffened again.

"Could you, er… not tell him I said that?"

Hazel made a gesture as if she were locking her mouth shut, and throwing away the key.

"Thanks, Ma'am," he sighed with a chuckle, clearly relieved by her reassuring smile.

"Drop the Ma'am. Call me Hazel. Now come on," she urged, pointing towards the corridor. "I promise I'll walk fast."

Though reluctant at first, after a further 'please' from Hazel, he caved.

The two exited into the even more stomach churning, mint-green corridor, and she began to follow the lead of the dramatically taller trooper. Keeping to her word, they upped the pace, but he certainly seemed a little softer now.

"So how long have you been a part of The Regiment?" Hazel enquired, side-glancing briefly to observe his reaction.

"Passed selection 'bout three months ago. Was assigned to A Squadron, 1st Troop right after. It gets a little rough sometimes. The Captain runs us hard. But I s'pose we're 1st Troop for a reason, eh?"

"This Captain of yours sounds like a real ray of sunshine," she scoffed, zigzagging between the people marching through the corridors purposefully. It took effort to keep up with Demo's gigantic strides. "Does he have a name?"

"MacTavish. Best bloke I've ever served under," he admitted with utmost confidence. Perhaps, indeed, even a hint of pride. "The Scot. Walked you in."

"Ah."

Well that made sense. Though he hadn't seemed as rigid as some of the officers she'd come across in her time, she could definitely see him knowing how to crack the whip when he set his mind to it. He struck her as one of those people who could command the attention of everyone in the room without even trying; naturally intimidating.

"You didn't like him?" Demo grinned, eyebrows raised questioningly.

It spoke volumes that he seemed surprised by this. Clearly, people disliking MacTavish wasn't the norm.

"I didn't really talk to him," she shrugged, reluctant to pass judgment on someone she hadn't known for longer than five minutes.

"Well, he's a good man. Got a real habit of being a shit, an' winning people back over right after. He'd probably have a fit if he heard me talkin' so candidly to a spook…then take me out for a curry right afterwards."

With that, they had reached the office in question, and Demo stopped in his tracks. Leaning forward, he gave two, stern knocks on the door. Multiple figures could been seen moving around inside through the frosted glass panel.

"Guess we're partin' ways, Ma'am."

"Thanks for walking me. Without a map I'm pretty directionally challenged, and I'm sure the Major doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Before he could respond, a booming voice shouted 'come' from the other side of the wall. It was so familiar, she was sure her heart had skipped a beat in acknowledgment. There wasn't time to respond before George, already inside, yanked the door open for her.

Both of her fellow analysts were stood before the Major's desk. The silver haired Officer, now glaring out of the door at Hazel and Demo, was stood behind it. Though he didn't say anything, his expression inspired a sense of urgency for her to step inside.

"It's kind of you to join us, Ms. Ford," The Major began, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maybe he hadn't been glaring… Maybe that was how he always looked? It was then he noticed Demo, and his expression changed to something part-way between confusion and impatience. "Dembrowski? Why're you bumbling around outside of my office? I thought MacTavish had the House booked for CQB?"

It was clearly rhetorical. When the trooper failed to move, the Major gestured his hands wildly.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go get suited up, man!"

"Sir."

Demo nodded his head obediently, straightening up and saluting his superior officer, before turning on his heels and marching away at a distinctly quicker pace than when he had arrived.

It was as the man raised his voice, she recognised him. Yet another Scottish accent; in some ways more distinct than that of MacTavish. He'd aged. Significantly so, considering the fact it hadn't been a great deal of time since she'd last laid eyes on him. Clearly, the stress-deepened lines on his forehead weren't the only thing to have changed since their last encounter, either. MacMillan also had a shiny new rank.

Stood before her was the reason she had failed selection.

It felt as though her heart was in her throat.

"Ms. Ford?"

It had taken a jab in the ribs from George's elbow to bring her back to reality. Without realising, Hazel had found herself completely zoned out; glare fixated on the man's crooked nose as if her life depended on it. It seemed as though he realised she hadn't been paying attention, because he quickly repeated his question without so much as a shred of impatience.

"I trust you find your living quarters satisfactory?"

"They're fine, yes," she rasped, folding her arms across her chest.

The Major offered a content smile, before he began informing them of just what their job would entail. He detailed the areas in which they would work, were permitted to spend time in, and the people with whom they would most closely be interacting. He gave them examples of routine assignments that could be carried out on base, as well as 'away' operations both domestic and foreign their predecessors had been a part of. He explained that even though they would still answer to MI5, there was a degree of expectation that they would still respect the chain of command presented before them. He spoke for almost twenty minutes with the two men, whilst Hazel had completely disengaged. She wasn't even sure what the majority of the conversation had been about, let alone taken part in discussion like Thomas and George had.

It seemed as though the Major had picked up on this.

When her two colleagues had been dismissed, Hazel found herself 'requested' to stay behind.

George's eyes had been so full of amusement as he'd left; like a naughty schoolboy watching his best friend get bollocked for something he'd done.

Without even giving it a second thought, she blindly obeyed MacMillan's orders, and sat down in front of his desk.

"Well I never thought I'd see you back here, lass. I knew you'd parted ways with the army after you were RTU'd, but MI5? Never would have pinned you for a bloody spook," he chuckled, sitting down in his own chair. "How are you doing?"

It caught her off guard, at first. The way he talked to her as if he hadn't played a direct part in the demise of her career. She shuffled awkwardly in her seat. It was hard to tell whether seeing him again absolutely crushed her, or absolutely infuriated her. All she knew was that it hurt in a way that she hadn't felt in years.

"I'm all right."

"Good. I'm glad."

An awkward pause descended on the small space.

"Tea?" He proposed, nodding his head in the direction of a rather lonely looking kettle. It was balanced precariously on top of a filing box.

After a moment's thought, Hazel shook her head. In the debate between seeming polite, and getting the Hell out of there, there was a clear winner. The older gentleman didn't seemed disheartened by her rejection, however, and instead went about making a cup for one.

"You know," he began, pausing to bring the object to life with the flick of a switch, "I was always hoping you'd try again, and use up your second shot. You had so much potential. You were so close."

"If I was good enough, I wouldn't have failed the first time around."

"That's rubbish. There's men in the regiment now who didn't make it on their first shot, and they're bloody fine soldiers. The pressure on your shoulders was remarkable, Ford. Everybody wanted you to fail, and you pushed on anyway. The fact you made it as far as you did proved a lot of old dogs wrong."

Hazel sighed loudly, shaking her head, and running her fingers through her hair in frustration.

"We even had the bloody Paras sniffing around after you left, because they thought you'd be an asset!"

Thinking about what might have happened had she given selection another shot wasn't helping the situation. If he thought they were even close to words of encouragement—or something she wanted to hear at all, for that matter—he must have been going crazy in his old age.

"Well it doesn't matter now," she breathed, determined to look anywhere but at him.

"It matters to me. I was rooting for you," he said simply, before heading over to finish making up his tea.

Neither of them spoke again. Not until he sat back down, cup in hand, and took his first sip.

"Aren't you mad at me? I hit you."

"You broke my nose, actually," MacMillan asserted, looking across at the young girl with a strange sense of amusement. "You hit like a bloody heavyweight."

"Exactly."

"I've been in the SAS since I was a lad. Trust me, lass, I've broken a lot worse."

That seemed easy to believe.

"MI5 has been a great opportunity for me, you know."

"Come on, now. You're honestly going to tell me you're content behind a desk? I've seen you in action, and find that very hard to believe," he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're a wasted talent."

"I couldn't go back!" She exclaimed, eyes wide. Her hands had started to shake ever-so-slightly in her lap, and her palms were already clammy from the sweat. What frustrated her most of all was how this would be wasted on him. It wasn't as though he would understand what had been running through her mind. "How was I supposed to go back after that?! I wasn't strong enough to pass selection, and I wasn't strong enough to face my unit ripping me to shreds afterwards. I had to pick myself and brush myself off one too many times, MacMillan. I didn't have it in me to do it again!"

When he realised he'd struck a nerve, he held up a hand. Prodding her into such a state had not been his intention; especially as he realised how worn down she looked after only one exchange. There was a vein practically throbbing on her forehead.

All he could hope was that she now realised someone had been in her corner, after all.

"All right, Ford. Easy," he said gently, looking, for the first time in her own experience, apologetic. "I didn't expect it to still be so touchy. For that, I apologise."

Though Hazel didn't verbalise her thanks, her appreciative nod was all he needed.

"Let's talk about business instead, yes?" He suggested enthusiastically. Perhaps it would be seen as more neutral ground.

"Good idea," she agreed, sucking in a deep breath through her slightly parted lips, and desperately trying to regain composure that she otherwise rarely let slip.

"All right. Let me lay out how this is going to work. Each of you are assigned to a troop."

"But aren't there four troops, and only three of us?"

"In a time of conflict, one troop is, generally, deployed to that region ready to engage in operations. You three get attached to the remaining troops at Hereford. Pill and Chung have already been given their teams," he informed her distractedly, reaching across to another haphazard pile of files, and fishing the top one away.

"So which troop am I with?" Hazel asked, taking the folder as he handed it across the table that divided them.

"1st Troop."

"MacTavish?"

"You've already met the Captain?" MacMillan queried, looking pleased by such a notion.

"Briefly."

"Good."

1st Troop. What were the bloody chances…